


Gypsy Rover

by owlinaminor



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (well a little), Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, M/M, Running Away, Young Arthur, gypsies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a gypsy thief in the marketplace, and he is going to knock a little boy's world off its hinges.  (And, ten years later, that boy will do the same for the gypsy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gypsy Rover

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to acknowledge that I'm not sure precisely what time period this takes place in -- probably around the late sixteenth century, Elizabethan-era -- and have fairly little knowledge of gypsy culture/history at the time. (I'm going off of Googled research and vague memories of historical fiction here.) That said, if I majorly screwed anything up, don't hesitate to tell me and I'll do my best to fix it.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the fic. :)

 

 

> _And though I'm very fond of you,_   
>  _You asked me home for tea,_   
>  _But I'm a gypsy rover, love,_   
>  _And you'll not come with me._
> 
> \-- Go Home, Girl (Gaelic Storm)

Merlin loves the marketplace.

He loves the sights – so many, in shapes and colors so far from the dull browns and grays of everyday life – the sounds – people calling out to one another, whether they’re stall-owners advertising their wares or children shouting with some new game they invented – and the smells – rosemary and thyme to venison and beef and everything in between.  The marketplace is a tiny city, even in a village as small as this one.  Crowds of people wander around, some purposefully some aimlessly, and it’s enough to lose a man as slight as Merlin.  He’s just a shadow lingering on the edge of their visions, nothing more.

Merlin can’t buy anything at the market, of course.  He doesn’t really need to buy anything from a place like this, and besides, none of these good, kind people would even talk to him if they knew who he was.  So, he settles for looking around, observing.  Normal people are so fascinating to him – what do they do with their normal, mundane lives?  What is it like, to not be constantly hiding or running, sticking to the shadows because the shadows are safe ...

So caught up in his thoughts and the excitement of all of these people, rushing around with things to do and places to go, Merlin almost doesn’t notice the small bundle of energy that dashes into his legs.

The little bugger steps back and makes to dash off again without so much as an apology.

“Not so fast,” Merlin exclaims, grabbing the kid by the back of his shirt and hauling him back to his former position.  “I didn’t hear an apology.”

The rude kid continues his streak of general knavery by crossing his arms and pouting at Merlin.  (He probably meant for it to be a glare, but it didn’t work out, possibly because of how adorable he is.  Merlin hates to associate this annoying little devil with any positive vocabulary, but there’s really no other word to describe him, what with the shining, golden hair and the wide, innocent, sky-blue eyes and the chubby, red cheeks and the ... the everything.)

Merlin mimics the young hooligan – only he hopes _his_ glare is at least marginally more effective – and notes the fascinating lack of parents nearby.  “Well?  I’m waiting.”

“Why should I have to apologize to _you_?” the kid retorts.  “You were just standing there, in the way of everyone!  It’s not my fault if I bumped into you!”

“You were running around, not looking where you were going,” Merlin says.  “It is _definitely_ not my fault.  Besides, I’m older than you are, so you should respect me.  Now, say, ‘Sir, I apologize for bumping into you.  It won’t happen again.’”

The little devil seems shocked, as though he can’t believe Merlin would even suggest such a thing.  “I am Arthur Pendragon,” he announces imperiously, “and I can bump into anyone if I want.”

“Well, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin replies, mocking the kid’s – Arthur’s – arrogant tone, “you need a lesson in respect.”

Arthur makes as though to further argue, but Merlin doesn’t let him.  “I don’t care who your father is or how spoiled you are at home.  I’m not letting you out of my sight until you apologize properly, and I’m sure your parents will appreciate the lesson I’ll have taught you by the time we find them.”

The kid doesn’t like this idea, and choses to make his displeasure known by attempting to dash off again.  But Merlin didn’t get to be the most famed gypsy thief in the greater London area without a.) quick reflexes and b.) keeping a rope with him at all times, so it isn’t long before Arthur’s got a sturdy rope tied to the back of his belt.  He tries to run, still – determined little bastard – but Merlin’s stronger than he looks, and doesn’t let go.

“You can’t _do_ this,” Arthur complains, once he’s tired of futile escape attempts.  “My father will –”

Merlin scoffs.  “I doubt it.”  Whoever this kid’s father is, it’s _very_ unlikely he’ll be able to catch this criminal.

“Don’t you have other things to do?” Arthur asks.  “Besides holding me hostage?”

“Nope, today’s my day off,” Merlin says, grinning.  Actually, he just pulled off a big heist and is pretty much set for the next month or so, but the kid with the powerful father doesn’t need to know that.  “Come on, then.  If you don’t want to apologize right now, we’re off to find your parents.”

Arthur mumbles and grumbles, but eventually he caves and sets off behind Merlin as he strides confidently through the marketplace.

* * *

“So, who is your father, anyway?” Merlin asks some time later.  He led Arthur in a merry jig around the marketplace, looking for the boy’s parents (along with perhaps a present for Merlin’s friend Elena, whose birthday is coming up) but Arthur hasn’t spoken the entire time.  Merlin doesn’t feel guilty for dragging the kid around the way he has, but he isn’t as antagonized by Arthur as he was before.  Sure, he’s annoying, but he’s smart, and Merlin likes his spunk.

“My _father_ is Uther Pendragon,” Arthur replies, sounding quite proud of the fact.

“Uther who?” Merlin asks.

“You don’t know my father?  How do you not know my father?  _Everyone_ knows my father!”

“Well, maybe I’m not everyone.”

“But ... My father’s the biggest lord in this whole town!” Arthur exclaims.  “He owns most of the land!”

Okay, so Merlin hasn’t been in this town before.  He doesn’t know this Pendragon bloke.  But he knows his kind – orders people around, puts lots of restrictions on everyone he rules, hates gypsies with a burning passion, programs his son to be just like him ... He’s the kind of man Merlin has stolen from, poached on the land of, secretly spoken out against in the right circles ... He’s the kind of man Merlin hates on principle.

And Merlin is stuck with his son for probably the rest of the day.

This could be interesting.

“So, tell me about your important, powerful father, then, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says, “since I’m so ignorant.”  They’ve journeyed past the boundaries of the market by now and are ambling along a stone wall separating the town from the farmlands beyond.  Merlin plops down on the wall, the stones hard and uncomfortable beneath his cheap britches.  Arthur hesitates for a moment, then follows suit.  A couple of sheep from a herd in the field beyond wander over to the two people, approaching slowly and warily at first, then relaxing as Merlin smiles kindly and pats one of them on the head.

Arthur eyes the sheep with some suspicion, edging to the side of the wall away from the field.

“They’re not going to bite you, clotpole,” Merlin tells the kid, laughing.

“Clotpole?  What does that even mean?” Arthur retorts – but instead of further insulting Merlin’s intelligence, he tentatively inches forward and reaches out to touch one particularly close sheep.

“It’s soft,” he exclaims, surprised, and rubs the sheep’s head excitedly, enjoying the fuzzy, cottony feel of its unshaved fur.  And for a few moments, all is quiet and peaceful.

“My father is a great man,” Arthur says – and Merlin, who assumed he’d forgotten the question, perks up attentively.  The young boy clenches his fists, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply before going on.  “At least, that’s what everybody tells me.  He’s a strong man, I know that – and a powerful one, because when he tells someone to do something, it happens, with no complaints or anything.  He orders people around, me most of all, and I don’t think he’s ever happy with what I do.”

“Well, your father wouldn’t like me, then,” Merlin remarks, trying not to feel sympathetic and failing, so completely failing.  “I never take orders from anyone.”

“And you’re a gypsy,” Arthur adds matter-of-factly.

“A ... What now?”

He figured it out?  Merlin hasn’t said anything too obvious, had he?  He’s always been careful, but somehow, this kid slipped through his defenses like a fish through water.

“You didn’t know who my father was, you kidnapped me, you don’t like to take orders, you’re wearing those ridiculous clothes ...” Arthur counts reasons off on his fingers.  “You could only be a gypsy.”

“You’re clever, for a little prat,” Merlin admits, more impressed than anything.

“Oi!  I’m not little!”  Arthur draws himself up to his full height, puffing his chest out like a young peacock.  “I’m eight!  Almost eight and a half!”

“Oh, yeah?”  Merlin smirks, taunting.  “Show me what you can do, _little prat_.”

Arthur grins back – _challenge accepted_ – and his smile is so brilliant that Merlin is almost blinded by its brightness.  You could command armies with that smile, he thinks.

And suddenly, the boy has leapt over the fence and into the pasture.  He grabs a long stick (a broken-off fence piece, maybe) and, brandishing it like a sword, dashes towards the herd.  Before Merlin can shout a warning – to boy or sheep, he’s not sure – Arthur jabs the stick into the ground and vaults among the sheep, jumping between them and dashing in and out, out and in, a streak of golden in a sea of white.  He’s quick, so very quick – the sheep stampede about in confusion, but none of them even get close to him.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur emerges triumphant, hoisting bits of fluff from all of the sheep above his head.  His hair is flaked with specks of white, but he’s laughing, so it’s alright.

Merlin is impressed.  He’s never seen anyone so nimble before.

“You’d make a good gypsy, Arthur,” he admits.

“Really?”

“Really.”

And Arthur shines.

* * *

The sun takes its slow journey across the sky, from zenith back to lowlands, and the gypsy and the young boy talk.  Arthur has questions, so many questions, and Merlin tries to answer as best he can.  He couldn’t hide anything from this boy, he finds, not even if he tried – Arthur is too clever, too perceptive.

So Merlin tells stories.  Arthur has never left his village, and he aches for travel, the sight of stars in faraway lands and the sunrise over the sea.  Merlin hasn’t been across the ocean yet ( _yet_ ), but he’s wandered all across Britain, and he tells Arthur all he can.  He tells of mountains in the north, great monsters of green moss and rocky crag, and beaches in the south, wide expanses of sand and crashing waves as far as the eye can see.  Arthur asks Merlin what it’s like to be a gypsy, and Merlin doesn’t lie – it’s hard, he says, hard to be constantly on the run, constantly looked down upon – but he tells Arthur about all of the good things too, about the singing and the dancing and the families he’s found around campfires across the nation.

Arthur’s eyes get very wide when he listens, as though they’re absorbing all of the information Merlin tells him.  Merlin watches this young boy, almost eight and a half, so stunted by his father and so brilliant with courage and heart, and wonders what kind of a man he’ll turn out to be.

A great man – he’s sure of that.  A good man – Merlin dares to hope.

* * *

They wander back into the main square around dusk, when the stars are beginning to poke their bright heads out of the fabric of night and the shopkeepers are closing up.

Arthur glances around, and his gaze rests on a stately man in an expensive jacket (brocade all along the edges) talking to someone on the other side of the square.

“Is that your father?” Merlin asks.  Arthur nods.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to go now,” Merlin says.  “If you’ll give me that one thing you owe me ...”

Arthur thinks for a moment, then says quietly, “I’m sorry I bumped into you earlier.”

Not exactly the apology Merlin was hoping for before, but then again, Arthur isn’t exactly the boy Merlin thought he was dealing with before.

“It’ll do,” he decides.  “So, off with you, then, young Pendragon.”

Merlin turns and begins to stride off – his tent is pitched in a forest north of town – but is soon stalled by a small hand firmly grasping his coat.

“Won’t you come with me?”

Arthur’s face is open, earnest, pleading.  He’s so young and Merlin didn’t want to break his heart.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, “but I can’t.”

“My mum would like you, I’m sure of it,” Arthur insists, “and we’re having roast for dinner – my favorite.  You could stay the night and leave in the morning.  We have guests all the time, there’s a nice guest room, linen bedsheets and everything –”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin repeats.  “There’s no place for me in your house.”

“But _Mer_ -lin,” Arthur says, dragging Merlin’s name out so that the two syllables span the very breadth of his annoyance.  “I don’t understand.  _Why_ can’t you come?”

Merlin has never really encountered children before, in his life as a gypsy thief.  He’s seen them before, around campfires and in tents, gangs of young vagabonds roaming around and making innocent mischief.  He’s seen them, but not like this, not up close and personal, where has to speak to them and care for them and change their perspectives of the world.  What do you tell a child, when he asks a question that you don’t know how to answer without hurting him?  Why does it have to be different from what you tell an adult?

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin says.  He crouches down, looks Arthur directly in the eyes.  (Arthur’s eyes are huge and so, so blue, like the ocean in midsummer.)  “I’m a gypsy, a poacher.  I steal from people like your father.  I might’ve stolen from him before.  I can’t go home with you for dinner – just go home by yourself.  He’s right over there, you can make it.  You go to your home, and I’ll just go back to wandering, the way I always do.  It would be best if you forgot you ever met me.”

Arthur stares for a moment – Merlin starts to wonder if he understood – and then blurts out, “I could go with you.”

“What?”  Oh, no.  No.  Merlin made a mistake.  Such a huge mistake.  Why did he even talk to this boy in the first place?  Why didn’t he realize this could never end well?

“I’d be a good gypsy,” the boy presses.  “You said so.  Why can’t I go with you?”

“We come from different worlds, you and I,” Merlin says simply.  “That’s all there is to it.”

A wetness wells up in Arthur’s eyes – not quite tears, but something akin to them.  The tears of a boy not allowed to cry, a boy trained to disappointment.  This child is so accustomed to getting his way, except when it really matters.  Son of a lord, spoiled beyond belief, expectations so high it’s impossible to meet them all.  Stubborn as a mule, fiery as a dragon.

Merlin has an idea.

He reaches beneath his shirt and draws out a necklace: a simple, black cord, made of the best deer hide, with a golden pendant in the shape of a dragon.  It was one of the first things Merlin ever stole, from the house of a wealthy gentleman in London who left his windows unlocked.

The dragon dances in the dusk, bits of early starlight glinting off of the metal.  Arthur reaches out for it almost instinctively.

“Here,” Merlin says.  “Something to remember me by.  Just don’t show it to your father, alright?”

Arthur nods – takes the necklace, drops it around his neck, tucks it beneath his shirt.  “Thank you,” he whispers.  The words are profound, important.  He isn’t the kind of boy to use them lightly.

“You are welcome,” Merlin replies.  “Now, I really do have to go.  You have yourself a good life, Arthur Pendragon.  Don’t waste it.”

The gypsy takes one last glance back on his way out of the square, and Arthur looks so small in the distance – just a silhouette of a boy, features painted in black on a black canvas.

He won’t be easily forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two is in the works, and it will be much happier, I promise!


End file.
